


throw my bones to the wolves

by raikkonen (armario)



Series: forget the poems of saints and ghosts [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/raikkonen
Summary: If he opened his eyes, he would remember where he was, that it wasn't 2019 with his kind friend Sebastian helping him through his disorder; it was a year later, and he was being threatened into recovery, his seat at Ferrari being held over his head, all because he put his faith in the wrong person.





	throw my bones to the wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).

> People asked for a sequel; be careful what you wish for ig. Trigger warning- I can't stress how horrible this fic is.

He got hysterical. He wanted to change his mind, but his signature had dried on the papers.

They actually sedated him. It was probably for the best, but the feeling of the tube through his nose and down his throat sent him into a spiraling panic.

He begged them to take it out. He promised he would eat.

It took him an hour to finish a meal.

He calmed down after a while. It wasn't all that bad; just mind-numbingly boring, and he was going out of his mind with the need to get back into a car. He did everything he could to try and leave as soon as possible.

He wanted to avoid looking at the number on the scale; just keep eating what he was told to until they were happy for him to leave. But it was part of the "treatment"; they made him look. He had to force down bile rising in his throat when he watched his weight increase.

They told him he was a model patient. He listened to everything they said and became aware of what he had to do to get out of there.

_You can leave at any time. You're an adult, you're here voluntarily._

"I'm here because someone betrayed my trust and forced me here. If I don't recover, my career is over. I would have liked to waste away in peace." 

They asked if he wanted to join in a group therapy session. People who had no idea the pressure he was under. And they were girls. How could they relate to him? How could he relate to them? He was content to lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, mechanically chewing whatever was put in front of him.

It wasn't difficult to put the weight back on when he awoke to the reality that his career was hanging in the balance. He just couldn't wait to leave, till he had the note signed by all his legion of medical staff that he didn't suffer from _anorexia nervosa _anymore. 

*

At night, his legs hurt so badly he cried. The aching pain originated from his bones all the way outward.

He thought about his father a lot.

*

"You have a visitor."

Often it was his mother. Other times, his brothers. A couple of times, it was Pierre. All of them riddled with guilt; but it wasn't them who were to blame.

"Who is it?" he asked tiredly.

"Sebastian, your teammate."

Fury, hot and overwhelming, clawed at the back of his throat. His hands twitched where they lay on the bedcovers.

"I don't want to see him."

That was a lie. He wanted to see Seb so he could kill him. He wanted to make Seb bleed and cry and choke until he felt half the pain and betrayal Charles had felt upon being called into the meeting.

*

_There's been a worrying disclosure. We think you have anorexia._

He was so taken aback, he couldn't even answer to defend himself.

_As such, you can't drive for us in such a condition. You have a place here, but we want you to be healthy, in top form. From now, and during winter break, we're sending you to a private residential treatment center._

_"Sending_ me?"

_Well, you don't have to go. But you understand that if you don't try and improve your wellbeing, we can't keep you on as a driver._

"So you're kicking me out? I can't even finish the season?"

_You can barely hold yourself up. Let alone drive._

He left crescent-moon marks in his palms and split his own lip open worrying at it with his teeth. Like a zombie, empty and numb, he walked away. 

How long until the media got hold of it? 

*

One week of being inpatient. 

_Rising star Charles Leclerc seeks urgent treatment for an eating disorder; Ferrari searches for a replacement driver for the final three races of the season._

The pressure got too much to him, people said. It was a way to have total control over just one aspect of his life.

*

He looked in the mirror, of which there were few in the building. He seemed shockingly ill. He was pale and sickly, his bones seemed close to bursting out of his near-translucent skin. There was a dullness to his eyes with their dark circles, and his hair had thinned.

He thought he looked beautiful.

*

He told Lorenzo to run his social media. They said it was a distraction to him, and in his specific case, there were a lot of cruel comments and articles online that it would be best he avoided.

His brother lay on the bed with him and scrolled through his Instagram DMs.

"Tant de messages vous souhaitant une récupération rapide. Même Verstappen. Les gens se soucient de toi, tu ne le sais pas?"

"Je ne veux pas être ici."

"Je sais, mon frère. Essayez de vous améliorer et vous pourrez bientôt partir."

*

The nurse was still there. She hadn't given up. Probably Seb had charmed her into pushing it.

"He's travelled a long way to see you," she reasoned.

"No."

"If you're still so resentful towards him, that tells me you're not committed to your recovery."

"Send him in and I'll kill him. I swear."

His nurse shook her head, managing to look both condescending and disappointed at the same time.

*

He heard voices in the corridor. He couldn't make out what they were saying, so he gave up, and slept.

When he woke up, it was dark. He knew they'd let Seb wheedle his way in to see him. The grip on his hand was familiar. Seb bowed his head, resting his forehead next to Charles on the bed as he clutched his hand like a lifeline, thumb tracing over his wrist bone.

Charles pretended to stay asleep. It was nice that he could have this without explicitly agreeing. If he opened his eyes, he would remember where he was, that it wasn't 2019 with his kind friend Sebastian helping him through his disorder; it was a year later, and he was being threatened into recovery, his seat at Ferrari being held over his head, all because he put his faith in the wrong person.

A thought crawled unbidden into his head and refused to leave. _Seb did this on purpose. Seb wanted to get rid of you._

*

He'd never admit it, but he actually enjoyed the lack of autonomy over his meals. It made everything easier. He even let himself savour the taste; vegetables, chewy meat, pasta, cereal. They worked through his fear foods. _I don't even like ice cream, _he lied. _You can't make me eat something I never even liked._

The weight piled on. Pounds of it. And they said he still wasn't in the clear, even though he could feel his stomach had become round and swollen; even his thighs had got softer and bulkier. There seemed to be more of a layer of skin and fat covering his collarbones and he hated that, digging his fingers into them to feel their sharpness.

All this in the midnight darkness of his room; his ward, his prison.

*

He sleeps too much. They make him go for walks and he feels so weak, so delicate, that even the air in his lungs is too heavy.

*

There were three more races left of the season. Races for which he should have been on the grid. Mick was good, but Charles took vicious pride in seeing he wasn't as good as _him._

"Watching the races isn't good for you. You'll be bitter that you can't be there. You're resentful towards your teammate."

_Crash,_ Charles thought to himself, unblinking, tracking the number 5 car. He wished and wished. _Crash and die, you bastard._

*

There was another boy there. Charles first saw him in the gym- to which his access was extremely restricted.

He smiled at him.

_Does he know who I am?_ Charles thought.

They didn't speak. He heard the boy talk to a nurse in English, but he pretended not to understand. He kept wondering if he knew; when they ate lunch together, when they were the only two patients interested in the PS4, when they went outside and kicked a football around, all without exchanging a word.

It was nice. He pretended he was normal and this was his best friend, and they were kids hoping to be signed for their local club.

*

Every night, he dreamed about racing. He was wheel to wheel with Max, but the Dutchman always pulled ahead. No matter how hard Charles tried, he couldn't catch up, and first place slipped away from him. The championship slipped away from him. He was too weak and unpracticed to win.

*

Two months. 12kg later. They began to talk about coming home.

*

His family did rotations of coming to cook for him. He ate dutifully, counting the days until the season began. Maybe he made some subtle changes to his meal plan when no one noticed; there wasn't any need for that amount of sugar or fat.

The team called. They were eager to have him back but he could tell they were apprehensive about his mental state.

He said, _if Seb doesn't leave by next year, I'll sign with someone else._

* * *

March.

Seb just told everyone he's retiring next year. There are hugs all round.

Charles feels disgusted when he remembers how he trusted Seb enough once to let him put his arms around him; hold him until he fell asleep.

Seb keeps looking over at him.

_You ruined me._

If Seb retires before next season, Charles vows he will win the championship this year. 

*

He corners him before he can leave. 

"Charles, you..."

Seb looks stricken at the idea that Charles still can't bear the sight of him. And more importantly, why he hadn't returned to Formula 1 miraculously recovered, happy, bubbly, fat.

"I look good?" Charles suggests cruelly.

_No. I look sick, because I am still sick, and my calories for the last three days was 500, which I burned off many times._

It was self indulgent, he knows, but he needed to lose some before he saw Seb again. To make him feel guilty; to make him see that nothing had changed.

He had lost 5 pounds in three days. It wasn't enough.

"You look surprised," Charles laughs. "What is it that the English say? You can lead a horse to water..."

Seb blanches.

"Two months," Charles tells him.

The German lowers his eyes.

"I trusted you," Charles shrugs. "I wasn't allowed to look at social media or go out much. It was boring. I just thought about you every single day, and what I would do to you when I saw you."

Seb looks sad and scared and worried all at once. Charles likes the taste of it more than anything he's supposed to eat.

"Wanted to kill you," he whispers. "Wanted to kill you, so, so much."

His teammate's gaze meets his. They look at each other for a long time. It's a form of self-harm, really, because it's hurting him deeply to identify that kind of pity, guilt, desperation for forgiveness, in Seb's expression. Maybe there is some love. A sad, broken love; the only kind Charles is capable of fostering. 

He misses Seb; the comfort he brought. The revelation brings a rising nausea. He doesn't want to waste any more emotion on his teammate, unless it's the determined fury that will drive him to win.

"I just want you to know something," Charles says. "If you think it was worth it, it wasn't."

Seb reaches out for him, but he jerks away.

"Remember when you promised you wouldn't tell anyone?"

This time, when Seb reaches out, wordless and torn, Charles lets his hand make contact with his collarbone.

In turn, he takes Seb's neck in a loose grip. _This is what I dreamed of doing to you._

His teammate lets him do it. He looks steadily back at Charles, pleading.

"It didn't work, you didn't save me. You_ lost_ me."

His fingers tighten, just a little. Seb grabs his wrist warningly, and yet he still doesn't try to escape.

Perhaps he feels guilty. The thought settles heavy in Charles' gut, far more satisfying than a meal.

"I did it because I had to," Seb says hoarsely.

Charles loosens his grip but keeps his hand splayed against Seb's throat.

"You were going to end up dead. You hid it so well, to the point where when someone finally noticed, it would be too late. I know you trusted me and I was prepared to lose you if it meant I did something to save your life."

"Well, you didn't," Charles snaps. "Maybe I might have recovered. But I want to die now, just to spite you." He hates how his voice cracks like a scared little boy. But that's all he is, isn't it?

It's something he's fantasized about, in the same way he used to fantasize about passing out in front of everyone until it actually happened.

Dying, overcome by hunger. Some place where Seb will find him first and scream for help; hate himself for being to blame, for being too late.

Seb swallows. He closes his eyes and opens his arms out.

Charles allows himself to lean into them. It's the only kind of hunger he can feel any more.

Nothing seemed to matter until he was faced with the prospect of not racing again. Not his family, nor his friends.

Lying in that bed day after day, he realised one day he'd have to stop. One day he'd have his last win. _On my terms,_ he vowed._ When I win the title, I'll end it, before it's ended _for_ me._

"I want to die," he repeats lifelessly.

Seb starts crying against Charles' shoulder. He indulges it, and then he pulls away, and that's the last time they interact with anything like sincerity.

*

He loses passion for everything except racing. Sleep, food, sex, all of it means nothing anymore. His libido died; he was too tired to even get hard. Months before, he told Seb he broke up with Giada, lying in the dark with his legs wrapped around Seb's waist and their lips inches away from touching. 

Seb never crossed that line, no matter how far Charles pushed it. Sometimes, when they were entwined trying to share body heat, his nails would scratch innocently over Charles' back in such a way that Charles' breath stuttered and he arched up into the touch. Seb's hand would still, and he'd pull back.

He'd call Charles handsome, on occasion without a trace of humour saturated instead with longing, and Charles would look at him, openly and encouragingly, but he'd pull back.

He always pulled back.

Giada was too good for him. He thought about cheating way too much, for no reason other than to keep himself warm.

Charles has always known there's something wrong with the way his brain is wired. 

*

The commentators talk quietly about his recovery. They say he's come back in fighting form, even better than he was last season.

Austria. He hits the lowest weight he can ever remember seeing.

_...understandable, with everything he's been through..._

He can afford to eat a little more- he _should,_ because he can't drive if he's seconds away from passing out all the time. But the hunger pangs are addictive and he has dangerous brushes with starvation.

_"...a hunger- ah, poor choice of words."_ The commentator coughed awkwardly._ "No, a passion, for winning."_

He takes extra care to reassure his family he's okay. He eats pizza with Pierre. Then he throws it back up; without even trying. His stomach is working to help him too.

When he wins the race, Lewis catches his arm on the podium and looks into his eyes.

Charles spaces out. He's thinking about calories in champagne.

"I can see, you know," Lewis tells him. "We can see, all of us. You don't have to do this alone."

"It's okay," Charles smiles dazedly, licking his chapped lips. "Everything is fine. I'm just a little under the weather."

He faints on the way back to his motorhome. He lays there on the wet grass, vision swimming with black dots, stomach screaming out for food with recurrent stabbing pains.

For a few long seconds, he completely forgets to breathe, until his lungs are burning for air.

Hands support his head and lift him up. A straw is pressed to his lips and he drinks; dehydrated, underfed, desperate.

_Haha. Orange juice._

He can't give up now. If something happens to him before he's world champion...

"I told you," a voice says, distressed. German-accented.

"I didn't know it was this bad," says another. British. Lewis.

Charles drifts into sleep. When he slowly comes back into consciousness, there are two folded notes beside his bed.

_Charles,_

_I am sorry. I miss you. If there's anything I can do to help. Things we used to do. You don't even have to say anything, just come to me, I'll do anything you want. Please be safe. I am so sorry. I know I deserve this but you cannot die because of me. You deserve so much better. If you don't go to me, go to Lewis, you can trust him. If I could take back what I did then I would _

He rereads Lewis' note while he tears Seb's to tiny pieces, shredding them over the sheets. 

_Charles,_

_Don't be mad at Seb but he told me everything that happened. We are all so worried about you. You don't have to do this any more. _

_We just want to help. We promise no one will make you do anything this time. Seb cares about you so much and I know part of the reason you're doing this is to punish him. _

_Please talk to someone if you don't talk to us. I am here for you. There are some things that only other drivers can understand. _

_Lewis_

*

Merciless. Narcissistic. Needy. Competitive. Self-critical.

Guilty.

*

People look at him strangely. The pity has always been there but now it's like an aura emanating from them, he can see it, shimmering in the air and behind their eyes as they wonder what was going on in his head to make him hurt himself like this. 

Max is the worst. He won't rise to any bait. He knows it's stupid but he honestly feels like Max is backing off from their fights, as though Charles is too fragile to spar with any more. 

It's like Seb all over again. Worming their way in until they earn his trust, only to betray him later on. If _Seb_ wanted Charles out of commission, imagine what lengths _Max_ would go to. 

He tells himself the way Max's smile has taken on a warm quality is fake. That the gentle, grounding grasp on his shoulder, or the friendly handshakes, or the worry etched onto his face when he thinks Charles isn't looking- are only designed to lull him into a false sense of security.

"Stop acting so weird with me!" he shouts.

Max glances at him, looking a little guilty. There's a pause, and he ducks his head in acknowledgement. "You're right," he says quietly. "Sorry."

He stops treating Charles like a doll. They go back to being rivals who can't stand the sight of each other, ranting over team radio, 'accidentally' crashing each other out, making snide comments in the press conferences, unfollowing each other on all social media.

Charles is alone again.

*

They whisper when he passes. He keeps his chin up.

Some are brave enough to say it to his face. 

"You'll die if you keep this up."

_And...?_

"I don't know what you mean," he answers lightly. He doesn't keep walking, because he respects Kimi, yet he starts to grind his teeth in anticipation for what's to come.

"I know why you're doing it," Kimi says. Anger burns hot in his cold gaze. He grabs Charles by the wrist, loose enough, but warning. "Enough. He's learnt his lesson."

Charles snatches his hand away. "Maybe you're right," he replies flippantly. "Have to make sure, though."

*

He wins the title. High on the congratulations of his team, he lets himself get pulled into the crowd, hands everywhere, touching every bit of skin they can reach. 

_I did it, _he thinks. He smiles for real, and it isn't tinged with bitterness or rue. He's at peace with himself.

He's dizzy on the win, but he can tell there is something really, really wrong. He can feel it stealing over him like radio static fogging his brain and the only thought that shines through with any clarity is _you'll die if you keep this up._

It's a weakness in his heart; the constant palpitations and the faintness of its beat. His blood runs freezing cold and boiling hot at the same time. The edges of his vision go black. He stumbles. 

The trophy slips out of his hands, and the last thing he hears is its metallic clang as both of them hit the floor. 


End file.
